


All These Years

by withthethieves



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Flashbacks, Future Fic, Interviews, M/M, aaaaand the second chap is basically just louis reminiscing, but like... not, it’s basically harry just reminiscing for most of it, it’s set in the canon world though, kind of, which is unusual because I said I’d never write a canon fic yet here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-12 19:51:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13554396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthethieves/pseuds/withthethieves
Summary: So. You and Louis.As soon as I mention the name, Styles’ eyes lazily droop open, and after a moment, land directly on mine. He leans forward in his chair, immediately giving off the impression that he’s much more engaged in the conversation now than he had been for the entire time we had been sitting together.“Me and Louis.” he repeats, slowly. As if he’s relearning the words.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is something that just came to me a couple nights ago, and i literally just wrote it in about three hours today. hope you enjoy. x
> 
> there’s a post for this fic on my blog which you can find [here](https://dreamsmp3.tumblr.com/post/170434098936/all-these-years-by-dreamsmp3-withthethieves)

_July 2024._ It’s a surprisingly pleasant day in Richmond, South-West London. Not a cloud in the sky. It’s made even better by the incredible view from the small and unassuming family-owned coffee shop, situated on the corner of a quiet, narrow street on the Hill which overlooks the expansive meadows of the park beneath. And better yet, to make the afternoon even more surreal, I am accompanied by none other than Mr. Harry Styles.

It’s not the first place you’d expect to find the multi award-winning, singer-turned-actor at on a Sunday afternoon, but something that I’ve come to learn about Styles - in the short but significant time frame that we have been acquainted - is that he is full of surprises.

The first one, I quickly find out, is that he’s an avid visitor of the café we are currently sat at. Apparently enough to know the owners well, and greet them like old friends as we walk in.

“Been coming here a while,” he tells me, “quite a few years, now, actually. Ever since I moved.” He smiles fondly at his words, as he orders for us - a pot of English breakfast tea to share, despite the fact that London is in the middle of a heatwave. (“Why should I let the weather determine whether or not I get to enjoy a nice cup of tea?” he asks me, in his slow and somewhat subtle Northern accent, after I comment on it. Too right, I think.)

We sit down outside before Styles starts speaking again, and it takes me a moment to realise he’s continuing the thread of conversation that we started minutes ago. “They’re great here, don’t treat me any different than anyone else. It’s nice. Peaceful.”

I ask him what made him want to move to somewhere so quiet and secluded (at the top of a hill, almost on the edge of London, the skyline visible from here) and what drew him to it.

“I think it was more to do with… with memories, or people, really… attached to where I was before. Sometimes you can outgrow a place, I think. There was nothing wrong with it [Hampstead Heath, North London - Styles’ previous place of residence, I was informed], I just decided, a few years back, that it was time to– time for a change. Yeah.” Styles nods at his answer, seems satisfied with what he’s given me.

“And I suppose I just… I’ve spent a lot of my life surrounded by people, you know? Whether it’s family, or work, or relationships, I sort of, I guess, felt like I never really got a lot of time alone. And I think– well, I know, I’m slightly introverted, so, you know. It was important for me to sort of be able to be alone. And be happy to be alone. I think I spent too much time depending on other people for my happiness, and I… it wasn’t, um. That wasn’t making me happy, ironically.”

_So being alone makes you happy?_

Styles laughs; a small, short chuckle. He probably thinks I was joking. Which brings me to another thing about Harry Styles - he possesses a very disarming character. I wasn’t joking, not initially, but now he’s got me wondering that perhaps I was.

“Uh, yeah,” he grins, almost too charming and boyish for his age, “being alone does make me very happy, I suppose.” The smile fades slightly, and his features transform into something more serious, “It’s more that, like... not feeling like I need someone else, or something else in my life anymore to _make_ me happy... that I can be happy on my own. _That_ makes me happy. If that makes sense. There were a lot of ‘happy’s in that sentence. Did you get them all down?”

He gestures to my notebook that I had been absentmindedly scribbling in as I listened intently to his answer - I hadn’t, in fact, gotten all the ‘happy’s down. I’d barely gotten anything down at all.

The fact is, there’s something about Styles that demands your full attention, something that you can’t ignore. He has this specific and unique way about him, empitomised by his slow speech and relaxed demeanour, that almost won’t allow you to concentrate on anything else but him. An easy trait to misuse, definitely. However, of course, if Styles is even aware of it, (which I’m sure he must be), he doesn’t strike me as that type of person at all.

Styles leans back in his chair, and lifts his face towards the sun, the image of pure relaxation. “It’s that feeling of independence, finally - that’s what I like about it.”

I nod, and take it all in. Although he’s a self-proclaimed introvert, he likes to talk, that much is clear. It seems as though you’ve just got to ask him the right question.

And now, as we sit in silence, and after just edging onto the topic of relationships, I decide that there is no better time than now to ask him about Louis. Louis Tomlinson, to be more specific, for the small percentage of people who aren’t aware what the name ‘Louis’ means in regards to Harry Styles. (A lot, as it turns out.)

There have always been hints, as I’m sure we can all remember, just here and there, about the nature of their relationship. Over the recent years, however, there have been more specific clues. Song lyrics about a painful, secret love, for example; blurry pictures from days of yore that have always remained unconfirmed by reps; countless old and recycled rumours about the pair that nobody has ever really stopped talking about. Hints about their relationship - what it was, years ago, and what it used to be, how deeply it ran, and what it is now. Despite this, neither of them have ever spoken about it - or each other - candidly, or explicitly. Not until now.

_So. You and Louis._

As soon as I mention the name, Styles’ eyes lazily droop open, and after a moment, land directly on mine. He leans forward in his chair, immediately giving off the impression that he’s much more engaged in the conversation now than he had been for the entire time we had been sitting together.

“Me and Louis.” he repeats, slowly. As if he’s relearning the words.

I push on.

_I know lots of people would love to know whether or not there’s any truth to the rumours that you two were once an item. So, were you?_

An easy smile takes over Styles’ face at my question, like he was expecting it. The heat of the sun (and of the subject, perhaps), tinges his cheeks ever so slightly. After taking a few moments to himself at the question, he responds.

“Of course. Of course we were. I think everyone knows that. I think everyone _knew._ Even those who didn’t really want to believe it.”

Styles moves to sip the last dregs of his tea before continuing. A way to buy some time to order his thoughts, maybe. The topic is certainly a heavy one, as I notice the crease in his brow deepening by the minute. But it’s by no means uncomfortable, as I take the time to watch him sitting calmly opposite me, leaned back in his chair, again, now - perfectly at ease. I even begin to worry he’s gotten completely lost in thought, before he starts speaking again.

“What we had, it was... It was special,” Styles tells me, with a tone of nostalgia, and perhaps something else in his voice, “very, very special. We were lucky, for a little bit.”

I nod again. I almost don’t want to break the silence. It feels fragile, and delicate, this moment; the way he talks about it.

_So it was short-lived?_

“Well, I wouldn’t…” Styles pauses, and fiddles with a ring on his finger. An old habit, perhaps. “I don’t know if I would call it that. You know, ‘cause like, sometimes I think about it and it feels like… like it spanned lifetimes.” At this, he fixes me with this extraordinary look in his eyes; like he is simultaneously anchored here in the moment, but at the same time, far, far away.

“But then sometimes I think about it and I think that, like… like we didn’t have enough time? Together, I mean. Like a lot of it was spent doing other stuff we didn’t need to do, or shouldn’t have done, I–… yeah. I dunno.” It’s the quickest I’ve heard him speak yet, like he can’t help himself or his words. He takes a breath.

“It lasted a while, let’s just say. It wasn’t consistent, but it may as well have been. My heart was only ever in one place for years. Only ever belonged to one person.” A pause. “Still does, really.”

There’s a tiny smile, here, bashful, almost. Or perhaps it’s a show of self-deprecation. It’s hard to tell.

_The inconsistency, then. Explain that to me. If you don’t mind, of course._

“Well, actually, now that you’ve said that…” he starts, and it’s clear he’s joking. His sense of humour still remains, despite the line of conversation; something that must be somewhat difficult for him. It’s admirable.

He sighs, quietly, and goes on.

“Um, well, that was… that was more to do with– I think.” He pauses, and it’s clear he’s trying to formulate his words very carefully.

“Both of us made mistakes, let’s put it that way. But I think we were just so… so stupidly in love that it took virtually nothing to just forgive each other, for whatever it was. And that was bad, because we’d always, always just end up together again, and all the while just keep making these mistakes. We were both guilty of that. So it got difficult, to be honest. Really fucking difficult.” Styles shrugs at this; a small, almost shy movement. His face is etched with discomfort, as he stares intently at his hands, and his words all of a sudden seem harder to get out. It’s the first sign of his guard coming down that I’ve witnessed so far. “And, like. We tried. Hard. But, you know. Sometimes these things, they just. They can’t be fixed.”

I give him a moment. He seems to be lost in thought again, brow furrowed and features tight, reflecting, probably. This might be the first time he’s talked about these things in a long while. I ask him as much.

“Yeah, actually.” He sounds surprised, eyes wide and glassy, just for a second. “First time in… in a very long time. Feels good, though. I’m glad I’m talking about it. I’m glad I finally can, finally let it out in the open, you know? I’m glad me and– I’m happy that decision was made.”

And he does seem happy about it. Content, is probably the better word. Relieved, maybe.

_And would you change anything, if you could?_

“Hm. That’s a tricky question. I think, initially, there are a lot of things I would change, if I could go back and do them again. Lots of things. I know I made mistakes, definitely. Lots of things I never said that I should have. Lots of things that I said that I probably shouldn’t have. If I could, I maybe would have tried harder to save us, what we had, I think, too. Maybe tried to let it end on better terms than it did.”

“But, I just... I really just had some of my best times with him. Honestly. I’ve never felt love quite like it. Not before then, and not since. It was, like I said before, very, very special. I’ll always cherish that time in my life. Always.”

“I don’t regret anything, though. Nothing at all. So I don’t think I would change anything, not now. What we had was beautiful, and fleeting, and one of the best experiences of my life. I wouldn’t change a thing. And I don’t think he would, either.”

_One last question. I know that you’re no longer together, and that you don’t really talk with each other often, but after this interview - after all it’s made you feel… If you could tell him one thing, right now, what would it be?_

A slow, sincere smile. Eyes off into the distance. Happiness lacing his features.

“I’d thank him. I’d thank him for letting me be apart of his life, even just for a little while. I’d thank him for all that he did for me, for everything. I’d thank him for helping me in more ways than he would ever know. And I’d tell him that, despite everything, he made me very, very happy.”

Styles takes a heavy breath. So do I.

“And I think, finally, I’d tell him that I hope I made him very happy, too.”

There’s a pause between us. It’s as if we’re both under the understanding that the words need to settle, need to take root.

_Well, now it’s my time to thank you, Harry. I hope you enjoyed this interview as much as I did._

“I did. I did.” He smiles, again. He emits happiness, Harry Styles. It’s rather remarkable to see.

_You seem very happy, now._

It’s here that he gives me this indecipherable look, something calculating; like he’s got a secret and he’s deciding whether or not to tell me what it is.

And then, just when I thought I had Harry Styles all figured out, he leaves me with one last puzzling comment.

“I do seem happy, don’t I? It’s funny, isn’t it, what a smile can do.”

**\- THE TIMES, PRINT, SEPTEMBER 2024.  
**

The flutter of pages is the only sound in the still room as Louis shuts the pages hastily, discarding the newspaper on the seat next to him. Then, the only sound is his heavy breathing, as his eyes lose focus and he feels his palms start to sweat. He’s nervous, and he doesn’t know why. He knew the interview was happening, knew what Harry was going to talk about. Knew he would talk about them.

What he didn’t know, which is probably something someone should have bloody mentioned to him, was that Harry… that Harry’s feelings, his feelings for Louis, more specifically, still exist, in some capacity. His mind stays stuck to one line of the interview in particular, chasing circles around his head until he’s dizzy with the words.

_“My heart was only ever in one place for years. Only ever belonged to one person. Still does, really.”_

Still does. _Still does._  Louis had thought–

“Fuck.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, the first thing he’s said out loud since he’d picked up the paper minutes ago, and skimmed through it like a maniac until he’d found the right page. He’d almost forgotten that it was out today, had woken up with a headache and a mind clouded with pain rather than with apprehension. That was, of course, until he’d stepped into the kitchen and seen the paper sitting there, on the dining table, almost as if it was waiting for him.

The housekeeper must’ve brought it in earlier, or perhaps it just appeared on its own, Louis couldn’t care less. All he cared about was what was on the inside. A short interview, an explanation, really. So that Louis wouldn’t have to. Harry bearing his fucking soul, to anyone and everyone, so that Louis wouldn’t have to. He was always so self-sacrificing like that, Louis remembers. Always so ready to make anything easier, if he could. And Louis had let him, sometimes. Should never have let him, though. Should never have been so selfish. Perhaps that was part of the reason they… part of the reason it ended.

Louis remembers getting the email, out of nowhere, from his publicist. Remembers her telling him that she’d received a message directly from Harry’s team. Remembers thinking how fucking stupid all the liasoning was when him and Harry could’ve just bloody spoken to each other directly about what they wanted to do like adults.

He remembers them deciding that now was the time, the time to tell everyone the truth. Everyone knew, already, anyway. They must’ve done. Old, private pictures of him and Harry had been plastered all over every bloody gossip rag for days just recently, before they could get them taken down. Not that that was such a shocker to the nation, though, Louis’ almost positive. Like Harry had said, everyone must’ve known, all along, or at least had a suspicion. Which is why they decided that they may as well just… tell the truth, on their own terms. But then it came to deciding how they were going to do that exactly. Someone suggested a joint interview, and that idea was very quickly shot down by Louis. It’s not that he didn’t want to see Harry, it was just. He was worried, he supposes. About how much things had changed between them, about how much that would be obvious if they were finally forced in a room together. Louis had successfully avoided that for a few years, now, he wasn’t going to let all his hard work go to waste. Now, though, now none of that matters. Because… because Harry’s heart still belongs to Louis, and Louis had no idea.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Louis picks up his phone. It’s a blind scramble to get to Harry’s number, still on his favourites list, because he’s been too stubborn and too bloody heartbroken to take it off, even after all this time.

His thumb hovers over the call button, and he stops for a moment, thinks.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

They’re… what they had is over. It’s done. Louis can’t– he can’t bring that back, nothing can. But all this time, all this time Harry has still been Louis’, and Louis... Louis has _always_ been Harry’s. Just Harry’s.

Louis presses the button without thinking, holds the phone up to his ear.

_Does any of this even matter, though? After all these years, he – surely he can’t just expect Harry to, what? Take him back? Does he even want to take Harry back? Calling him won’t change a bloody thing._

It rings once.

_It still ended badly, Louis still said the things he said. Harry still said the things he said. It was ugly and unhealthy and too fucking much._

It rings twice.

_No, it doesn’t matter, none of this fucking matters. Louis’ being ridiculous, he’s not thinking straight–_

He hangs up the phone.  
  
Louis rakes a hand through his hair, curses silently as makes his way outside, desperate to get out of the suddenly hot, stuffy room. He squeezes his phone in his hand, feels the heavy weight of it in his palm, the potential it holds.

He lights up a cigarette and inhales deeply, feels the nicotine course through his veins, relaxing his taught and tense muscles by just a little bit. He stands, and just thinks for a moment. Thinks of what to do, what he wants to do.

He’s halfway through his second one before he decides.

 ** _Hey, H._** he types, ** _I just read the article, the one about us. I’d really like to talk to you about_**

Louis stops. He can’t. It’s over. It’s… it’s done. _They’re_ done. None of what Harry said changes anything. It shouldn’t. And it doesn’t. It’s been too long, anyway. Louis knows that. And he’s sure Harry knows that too.

Louis deletes the message, starts re-typing something else.

**_Just read that piece you did. Hope you’re well. - Louis._ **

_It’s for the best,_ Louis thinks. _Probably._

He sends the message and switches off his phone, lights up a third cigarette and lets himself just be still. It’s done, now. It’s over. It’s all over now.

 _Yeah,_ Louis tells himself. _Probably for the best._

—


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some people asked for a part 2, so here it is...
> 
> i hope you enjoy it, please leave a kudos or a comment if you did x
> 
> (i'm on tumblr as [dreamsmp3](https://dreamsmp3.tumblr.com), and there's a post for this fic on my blog [here](https://dreamsmp3.tumblr.com/post/170434098936/all-these-years-by-dreamsmp3-withthethieves) too)

_October, 2024._ Louis Tomlinson has remained rather under the radar for the past few years. After releasing a couple of solo albums (both of which were clearly heavily inspired by his Northern roots and influences – something he has always been keen to hang on to), he’s been more on the producing side of music as of late. Having been behind some of the biggest hits of this year alone, it’s no wonder he’s decided to shelf his singing career for now, and instead focus more on projects where he’s on the other side of the recording booth. One early morning on a Wednesday, in between his busy schedule, I had the privilege to have a chat with him. 

Louis tells me he does this particular walk that we’re currently on most days, when he’s not too busy. (“It’s my favourite thing to do, really. Helps me think a lot. Focus. [Laughs] That sounds a bit deep, doesn’t it?”). Holland Park is conveniently located, just near his recording studio in Notting Hill, where he works with various well-known artists regularly. 

There aren’t many people around us, and we remain undisturbed. I think to myself that it must be a vast change to his boyband days, where the mere notion of privacy or time away from a camera probably seemed like some fantastical myth. I ask Louis his opinion. 

_Would you say it’s rather easy now for you to just do every-day stuff like this, like taking a walk in the park, without getting recognised and stopped for pictures all the time?_

“It’s strange, you know, I still do get quite a few people coming up to me, sometimes it’s mums with their kids or whatever, who tell me they still listen to my music, that they’ve been listening for years; it’s wicked.” 

He sounds genuinely surprised, like he’s shocked people actually still enjoy his work. “It’s mad, it really never gets old. I still... I still sometimes wake up and can’t believe the life we all had, back then.”

It’s this sort of humble and disbelieving comment that reminds me of what I thought when I initially met Louis. Immediately after our first introduction (just at his studio a few hours prior) he struck me as someone who was very grounded. Sitting in just jeans and a jumper, looking comfortable and approachable as he greeted me with a warm hug (and punctuated it with a laugh and “Sorry, sorry, it’s ‘cause I’m Northern, love,” when I told him I’m used to just handshakes, but that I appreciated the change), and completely unlike any and every awful ex-boybander/celebrity stereotype. There was no inauthenticity about him at all - what you see is what you get with Louis Tomlinson. It’s refreshing. 

_I’d love to know more about your current career, Louis. How much does it differ to what you were used to before? And in what ways?_

“It’s a lot more creatively challenging, in my opinion,” he tells me, as we wander rather aimlessly through the park. “Being able to write, produce, arrange, all that stuff, all on my own terms... it’s great, I really love it.”

“I also… I also feel like I can provide this relaxed, chilled out atmosphere for the artists that come in, too. A lot of the time when I would go in [to the studio] I would always feel quite rushed and stressed out. It was always go, go, go, you know? That kinda thing, so like, one of my main goals was to maintain like a stress free environment where everyone’s creativity can be free to come through.” 

_Right. So you’d say you spent most of the time in the band feeling creatively stunted, then?_

Louis stops and starts his answer a few times at this one. Unsure, perhaps. 

“Um, well. I wouldn’t– I don’t think I would say that. I think, especially, towards the end [of the time in the band; around 2015] we got a lot more creative control, so… but, actually, at the start, it was something we had to fight for. A lot.” A pause. “I usually started those arguments.” He chuckles, “Was always a bit of a troublemaker back then.”

He smiles. At a memory, perhaps.

“So yeah, um, I suppose at the start I did sort of feel like, like, creatively controlled. But, you know. Got there in the end, didn’t we? One way or another.”

_You don’t miss it, then? The life you had? Think you prefer the more low-key lifestyle?_

“Hm. Well. They’re both just... very very different, you know? Like, for a while, I think like when I was young, that fast-paced, crazy sort of lifestyle was exactly what I needed. I had loadsa energy, was bouncing off the fuckin’ walls most days, always needed–“ Tomlinson pauses here. 

_Always needed...?_

He falters for a moment. “Oh right, well. I just– I guess I always needed someone to like, calm me down, really.” 

We take a seat at a nearby bench before I ask him my next question. He looks nervous when I glance over, hands in pockets and gaze at his feet. I wonder if he already knows what I’m going to ask. 

_And who would that person be, usually?_

Another pause. It feels longer than the rest. 

“Harry.” he finally tells me. A slight lift to his lips. Voice gone soft. Nostalgic. “It was always Harry.” 

I don’t need a last name; we both know who he’s referring to.

A few months ago, I had the fortunate opportunity to interview Harry Styles. We talked about a few things, such as what makes him happy, and why someone that maintains such a great degree of fame decided to live the low-key lifestyle that he does.

We also talked about Louis. 

Tomlinson reached out to us, unexpectedly, about a month after our piece with Styles was published. He expressed his desire to give a similar interview. And so of course, we obliged. 

_So, your time with Harry, then. Talk to me about it._

It takes Tomlinson a while to settle, and a little while longer to formulate any response. He looks overwhelmed, almost, like I’ve asked him a great deal more than the question seems. Perhaps I have. 

“Well uh, I– I don’t really quite know where to start, to be honest. It was... there’s a lot. A lot to talk about, really. ‘M not quite sure where to begin.”

_That’s alright, I’ll start. Would you say you had a normal relationship, while you were together?_

I receive a rare smile. 

“Well. It wasn’t conventional, by any means... but nothing about Harry was.” 

_How do you mean?_

“I mean, that like… he was just. He was so different to anyone I’d ever met before, when I first knew him. Back when we were on the show [X-Factor] together, I just. I think we were just immediately in our own little world, back then.”

“I don’t think we really knew what it [the relationship] was until a year in to the band, though. I guess back then I thought it happened pretty quickly, overnight, really. But, actually, in hindsight… I suppose there was a very obvious build up to the [romantic] relationship. I just didn’t really see it before. He was my best mate one day, and then he was something more the next.”

I nod, and decide not to interrupt him. He seems like he has a lot to say, and it’s just finding the right way to get it out that holds him back every moment or so. 

“I remember it felt very natural, though. The progression of it. It didn’t feel forced, or like, weird or awkward, in any way. At all. And it wasn’t– I’d never… I’d never been with a boy before. But that almost didn’t cross my mind at the time. Because he wasn’t just a _boy_ to me _…_ he was _Harry,_ you know? And somehow that was so much bigger.”

_I understand. So there was a year where you grew closer, and then for a year after that you had this rather secret relationship, is that right?_

“Yeah. I suppose it was about a year or so. But pretty much from the start I think– I think I was in love. With Harry. But I think I only realised it when it ended, the first time.”

_Right. And so what happened? That first time?_

Tomlinson sighs, looks away. It takes him another little while to answer. 

“I fucked up, basically. I was– I was young, but I was the oldest in the band, and I felt this pressure to sort of… be someone that other people wanted me to be. Instead of being myself. And so I decided to… agree to this other relationship. A public one. With a girl. It was– there were lots of things, lots of decisions I would’ve made differently in hindsight, to be honest. That being one of them. I just kind thought that by doing it, [starting a new, public relationship with a woman] it would make things better? I dunno, to be honest. I think a lot of people, fans, really, suspected… me and Harry. And that sort of freaked me out. Because it was– it was something that was still so fresh, and delicate… I just. I didn’t want it to be ruined. But by doing that, I sort of ended up ruining it myself. Ironic, innit?”

_I suppose so. But sometimes these things can’t be helped._

“Yeah. Yeah, I thought so too, at the time.”

_And you don’t anymore?_

He sighs. “I dunno. I don’t– I dunno, really. Like I said, it was a long time ago. There are lots of things I would change, if I could.”

_So… these relationships, they overlapped, then?_

“For a little while, yeah. It [the public relationship] was all really just for show, at the start. I think people knew that, too. [He laughs, just once.] And we weren’t very good at pretending.”

“But then… It really it started to weigh on Harry, and I just. I couldn’t do that to him, you know? But I also couldn’t end things with her, it was complicated. So H and– sorry, _Harry_ and I had to take a break. And I hated it. Every fuckin’ second of it. But it was either that or we end up hating or resenting each other.” 

_Right. But the break didn’t last long…_

Louis laughs, dryly. “No. No, we never could stay away from each other for too long. And that was problematic in itself, to be honest. It was all a bit much. Over the next few years it was a lot of missing each other and going back to a relationship that we knew just hurt us in the long run, for many reasons. We would break each other, over and over again. And we knew that. But we continued to do it.”

_Why?_

“Because we loved each other.” 

Louis tells me this frankly. As if it were entirely obvious. And I suppose it was. 

“We were… desperately… in love. To a fault, really. But that’s just how it was. And we both made mistakes. A lot of them. We were both guilty of stuff. But what we had… it was one of those bonds that just. It doesn’t go away. At all. At least for me, anyway. I’ll never forget how I felt. How I feel, for him. I think I’ll… I think I’ll always love him.”

_Harry said something rather similar._

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I guess that’s how you know it’s the truth, then.” 

_Feel free to pass on this question, as I’m sure I could be overstepping… but do you ever think you could just start again? With Harry?_

He answers immediately. “I think about that a lot, you know. I do, sometimes wonder, what would happen if I just picked up the phone. I almost did when that last interview came out. But I think I just– I think I’m nervous, or, I dunno, something's holding me back, to be honest. And I’ve never been good at admitting that kinda thing, but. I think that could be it.”

“In answer to you question, though… I don’t know. Maybe. Hopefully. I’d like to think we could at least be friends again. Maybe he’ll see this and actually have the balls to pick up the phone, unlike me. [He laughs.] God, can’t believe I’ve actually just said that. Are you gonna put it in?”

_Not if you don’t want me to._

He seems to deliberate for a moment. “Nah, leave it.” He decides. “I want it in there. At least then it’s like I tried in some way, right?”

_Hm. Yes. So, Louis, I’d like to ask you one last thing – a question I asked Harry, if that’s alright._

“Course.”

_If you could tell him one thing, right now, what would it be?_

“Can’t say I wasn’t expecting this one.” He tells me, smiling to himself. “I think– I’d tell him that he absolutely… without a single doubt, made me happy. Very, very happy.”

He stops. Looks at his hands, fiddles for a moment. The nervous twitch is so similar to that of Styles’ that I witnessed before that it’s very easy to believe they were partners, even just for a little while. 

“And I’d, um. I’d say that I’m glad I made him happy. That it sort of… sort of surprised me when I read that. And that I don’t think I deserved him, but that he helped me in lots of ways, too. That I’m grateful for that. 

“And I’d tell him that I still– those feelings will always be there. For him. I mean, fuck it, if I’m telling the truth, they never left. Not really. I think I’ve made that much obvious already.” 

Silence. An air of calm has washed over us. Of finality. Tomlinson has said all he needs to say. I’ve asked all I needed to ask. 

We get up from our bench, make our way through the park, back towards Notting Hill. Retracing our steps.

_Well. Thank you very much, Louis._

“No, thank you. Really.” 

It’s sincere. As every part of this conversation has been. As every part of Louis Tomlinson is. Meeting with him has been like meeting with an old friend - there was a sense of rare familiarity to it. I have a feeling he has that effect on a lot of people. 

As we part ways, I tell him that I hope things go well for him in the near future. 

“Yeah, me too.” He tells me, generously giving me one last smile. It’s small. Hopeful. “Me too.”

**\- THE TIMES, PRINT, DECEMBER 2024.**

–

It’s not the first time Harry’s been here. 

The last time he was at this particular studio was when it belonged to another company, a long time ago, and he was recording some stuff for the band’s second album, or perhaps it was the third. He doesn’t remember. It’s not important now, anyway. 

The fact that he’s back here again, after all these years, to see the person who owns the studio now, the same person he was sure would just remain as a part of his memory, similar to that of the recording session he had here years ago, well. It’s strange, the way things work out. 

It’s cold, standing outside. Freezing. He can see his breath when he exhales, misting up like smoke into the late-afternoon London sky. He can’t quite bring himself to go in, though. Not just yet. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say. Just knows that he’s… he’s not upset, exactly. Just confused. Hurt, slightly. Needing answers, more than anything. Still nervous as hell, though. 

It’s another minute, he counts to make sure, before he walks through the doors. 

The sudden sound of his heavy boots slapping against the hard marble is deafening, and it’s not aided by his heartbeat ringing in his ears, louder and louder and he takes each step towards the front desk. 

“Hello, how can I help you today?” 

A young, chirpy receptionist greets him, as he settles in the lobby. He almost asks her if she happens to have a stray bottle of vodka lying around or something. Perhaps a spare xanax, even, anything to calm the nerves. He decides against it. Sometimes people don’t really get his jokes. There’s only been one person who’s ever laughed at every single one he made, even the crap ones. A long time ago, though. 

Instead, Harry looks around the lobby. It’s different to what he remembers. Less office-like. More colour around it, looks more modern. Feels more relaxed. He likes it. 

“Um, hi. I– I’m not quite sure if, um. If this is the right way to go about this, but I was just wondering, uh. Is. Is Louis here?” Harry asks, tongue-tied and feeling more nervous than he’s been in a while as he gets each and every word out. “Tomlinson, obviously. Unless there’s multiple Louis’ working here. Then I suppose it wouldn’t be so obvious. In which case just the one, please.” _Oh Christ._

The receptionist gives him a smile, bless her. She’s probably taking pity on him. “There’s only one Louis here, fortunately. Do you have an appointment by any chance?”

Harry blinks at her. “Ah. No, I– I don’t.”

 _Fuck._ He should have known he couldn’t just show up like this, all of a sudden. 

He starts to feel hot all over, lightheaded and anxious, and instantly wonders what the fuck he’s doing here. 

Harry shakes his head, harshly. “I’m sorry, this was– this was a bad idea, actually. I’ll just–” 

“Hold on, I can just have a look for you, maybe he’s–”

“No,” Harry pushes off from the desk, regretting this entire thing completely, “No, um, thank you, that’s fine,” he gets out, voice thin and quiet, desperate to leave now, wanting to get as far away as possible from here, because suddenly it’s all very _real,_ and Harry can’t quite take it. 

“Excuse me, sir, if you wait a moment I can–”

But Harry’s already backing towards the way he came, turning around, desperately needing some fresh air or something to clear his head when a door to a studio opens and then–

“Harry? Is that you?”

Everything just… stops. 

Harry doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to turn around, and see him, because then it makes it real. And Harry’s not quite sure if he wants it to be real anymore. 

He takes a breath, and another one. Let’s his limbs loosen slightly. No, he came here for a reason. He came here to talk. 

He turns around. Heart heavy and lungs empty and eyes stinging, because it’s a _lot._

“Louis. Hi.”

He looks… well. Just as Harry remembers, really. 

His hair’s grown, only just. Must’ve kept trimming it like he used to. His eyes look just a little bit softer. Warmer, maybe. He looks healthier, too, like the years have done him well. But he’s still… still just the same Louis. Still Harry’s Louis. 

Louis releases a breath. Harry still can’t find his own. “What are you… uh.” Louis clears his throat. His jaw tenses. “What are you doing here?”

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets. Takes a step closer. Biding his time. 

Louis looks like he’s about to say something else, but Harry gets there before him. It’s three simple words, a phrase he’s used numerous times in his life, but they’ve never felt harder to say than right now.

“Can we talk?” 

His voice comes out like a whisper. It doesn’t matter, though. Louis hears him. He stares at Harry, eyes wide, and even bluer than Harry remembers. He nods. 

Harry follows him to what he assumes is Louis’ office. Tries to not think about the fact that the receptionist just witnessed their more than unusual reunion. Tries not to think about the fact that him and Louis are about to be in a room together, alone, for the first time in… Harry doesn’t even know. 

The door shuts, and then there’s silence again. There’s a lot of it, when it comes to them both. There never used to be. 

Harry feels unsure where he stands, just for a moment, before taking a seat on the sofa in a corner of the room. He doesn’t focus on the rest of it, doesn’t have the concentration to. Just sits and waits for either one of them to say something. 

He hears Louis sigh. “So I guess you read the article, then.” 

Harry almost laughs. Right into into it, then. “Yeah. I did.” He looks up at Louis, sees him sitting on the edge of his desk in front of Harry. Close, but just out of reach. “Just… why?”

“Why?” Louis asks. He’s nervous, too, Harry can tell. 

“Yeah.”

Louis shifts where he sits. “I dunno. I just. It felt right, to do it, I think. After I read yours.” 

Harry stares at him. Confused, slightly. Louis stares back. “It just felt _right?”_

Louis’s brow furrows. “Well, I mean,” he leans forward, arms crossed. Defensive. “I sort of, like– I wanted to– I wanted everyone to know. How… How _I_ felt. About everything. You know, thought that… thought that my side of it would be good to put out.”

Harry scoffs. Nerves momentarily outweighed by impatience. “Right. Even after you explicitly made it clear that you didn’t want to do an interview. That makes a lot of sense, Louis.” 

“I changed my mind, alright?” It’s more defensive, still. Voice louder, bigger. Harry knows this is just Louis compensating for suddenly feeling small. “Why do you care, anyway?”

Harry balks at Louis, in complete disbelief, gets up from his seat to face him. He raises his voice, too, helpless to needing to match Louis’, “Why do I _care?_ You think I don’t? That I wouldn’t?”

“To be honest, Harry, I’m not sure I would know what you would or wouldn’t care about anymore.” 

“ _Bullshit._ ” Harry protests, rage taking over him for a split second. “Don’t give me that, don’t pretend like we barely knew each other, Louis.”

“I’m– that’s not what I was trying to do, I just–“

Harry takes a breath, calms himself down. “Look. I– I didn’t come here to have an argument. I just…” Harry sighs, trying his best to keep his voice level and calm, to not let any hints of how he feels slip out, “What you said, in that article…” he trails off, unsure of how to finish. Leaving it open for Louis to continue, too, maybe. 

Louis breathes in, sharply. “We don’t, um.” He looks away from Harry, leans back, creates some distance. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“But I want to talk about it.”

Louis is silent. Looks at Harry, apprehension heavy in his gaze. 

Harry goes on. “Why did you… I mean, why didn’t you just tell me? As soon as you read my interview? How you felt, I mean. Why did you wait so long? And why did you feel like you had to announce it publicly, just in the hopes I would see it? Why didn’t you just pick up the phone? Why did–”

“I did.” Louis interrupts him. It’s desperate, an urgent interjection. He’d been staring at the floor, as soon as Harry had started talking, but he’s lifted his head up now. His eyes are red, but he’s not crying. Harry almost can’t bear it. “Call you, I mean.” His voice has gone faint, fragile. “I tried, anyway, hung up after a few seconds. But I did try, Harry. I did.”

Harry hadn’t known this. It’s surprising, and slightly comforting, he supposes. But it hardly changes anything. 

He tries to keep the exasperation out of his voice, tries to keep it neutral, so as not to make the volatile situation even worse, “Why did you hang up, then.”

Louis droops, a little. His features soften, his voice even softer. Like he’s found a temporary reprieve. “You know why.”

And maybe Harry does. But then again, maybe he doesn’t. He lowers his voice, and impulsively closes the gap between them, until they’re standing closer than they have in years, closer than he ever thought they’d be again. His heart is in his stomach and his lungs are in his throat, and they’re not even touching but still, it’s almost too much. “Tell me.”

Something akin to a whimper escapes Louis’ lips. Harry tries not to react. 

“I was scared.”

And that. _That_ is what breaks Harry’s heart. Three words which cut through him like tiny knives, each one carving the words upon his chest, inflicting pain over and over and over until there’s nothing left. 

“You were–” Harry stops, his throat is tight, he needs to slow down, needs to breathe, “You… you were scared?” Harry tries to stop himself now, but it’s too late, he’s already reaching out, already touching Louis, fingers grazing ever so gently on his smooth cheek, needing to feel him again, after all these years, even just a little part of him, needing to give him any kind of comfort in some way. 

Louis’ eyes flutter shut at the touch, his breath hitching as Harry cups his jaw, strokes it with his thumb, feels the familiar tufts of silky hair at the nape of Louis’ neck with his fingertips. A single tear trickles down Harry’s cheek, from Louis’ confession, or from the feeling of touching him again, Harry’s not sure. He’s not sure it matters, though.

“I was…” Louis begins, voice so quiet Harry can barely hear it. “You’ve always been the youngest, and I’ve always been the oldest, but Harry, I’ve,” he releases a breath, opens his eyes to look up at Harry, his own pair glistening and wet, “I’ve always been the scaredest. With everything. You know that.” 

Harry’s hand had moved to cradle Louis’ neck at some point; neither of them had noticed. He wonders if he should remove it, but decides against it almost immediately. They need this.

“With everything?” Harry asks. His own voice sounds so young. Vulnerable. 

Louis sniffs, his own warm hand coming to rest gently on Harry’s cheek. “With you.”

It’s enough to cause more tears to fall uncontrollably from Harry’s face, clouding his vision and his mind, momentarily, but he regains his composure soon enough.

“I never…” Harry starts, tightening his grip ever so slightly, anything to show Louis that he’s there, for him, that he’s not going anywhere. “I never wanted you to be afraid. To– To talk to me, Lou. Never. There’s no one who… who knows me better than you. There never has been, and there never will be. You must know that.” 

Harry clears his throat, sees a flicker of uncertainty in Louis’ eyes. His voice goes desperate, now, tight and heavy and full of conviction, “Louis. I still love you. You _must_ know that.”

Harry isn’t sure when Louis had started crying, but they both are now, as they hold each other and just watch as the other man’s tears fall silently. Louis’ responding words come out in between sharp, shaky breaths, “I do. I do know that.”

Harry breathes. He can finally breathe. “And you still love me.” 

“I do,” Louis tells him, as he leans closer, and presses his forehead against Harry’s, his hand on the back of Harry’s neck, clutching onto it, like it’s the one thing that’s keeping him from collapsing at that moment. “I do still love you, Harry. I do.”

They stand like that for a little while, heads bowed together in the middle of the room, holding onto each other like they’d never known any other way. Their lips are inches apart, but never touching; yet their warm breath mingles between their mouths like an invitation. Their heavy breaths, just slightly out of sync, is the only sound in the room as they stand like that, connected, for the first time in a much too-long time.

Harry knows this isn’t fixed yet. He knows they still have a long way to go, has no idea how tough it’ll be. He knows they may never be the same again, even. But it’s a start, he tells himself. And that is good enough for him, after all these years.


End file.
